


Corvina, Corvinone, Rondinella

by Uselessroom (Kurekai)



Category: Fishbones - Jisuk Cho
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5484353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kurekai/pseuds/Uselessroom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where it’s summer in Verona and Ferris and Demos visit a vineyard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corvina, Corvinone, Rondinella

**Author's Note:**

> “I want them to fuck in a vineyard…” – Jisuk Cho, 2015

  

Ferris knows, realistically, that there are more rooms in the house than the main foyer, the stairwell to the first floor, and the bedroom straight across the hall from stairwell to the first floor. A second, more likely a third or fourth bedroom is a given. Possibly several bathrooms, at least one more than the one attached to the bedroom, definitely a kitchen somewhere, and perhaps even a small undiscovered country considering the quick lap Ferris took around the outside walls, which alluded to him the considerable amount of uncharted waters within. He had glided his hand over the wall, stucco biting his palm, and had wondered about the cellar, and the stairs leading down to the cellar, and the door that opened into the stairs leading down to the cellar.

If Ferris clenches his hand he can still feel the stucco, but the heavily referenced cellar remains as unexplored as the rest of the house. 

That’s not entirely true. If Ferris clenches his hand he can either risk smashing an almost empty wine glass or tightening the palm he has around his dick. It all depends on which hand. He tips his head, the back of the chair digging into his nape, and his eyes meet with his familiar friend, the low and empty ceiling of his master bedroom prison. 

He jerks himself off slowly, takes a sip of the wine, and considers how spending too much time in this room has led him to develop a displaced animosity towards this low ceiling, the pale walls, the ineffective window shutters. The villa does not deserve his hatred, but neither does he deserve to be se-sawed between lounging outside and fucking inside. Specifically in one room. _This_ room, no window frames and all. 

He’s always been a curtains man himself, so the nuances of Italian interior design and its obsession with open airedness completely escape him, and all the stray light filtering through all the slats in the world can’t stop him from feeling claustrophobic.

He hates to admit that if Demos were here it wouldn’t be so bad, but his last memory of Demos involves getting kissed and being too tired to kiss back, the dip of the mattress, and the sound of the door being gently closed. Hours ago Demos had left him alone in this room, and minutes ago Ferris had finally reached the end of his rope, popping a cork and settling in for an indifferent and avoidably lonely jack off. 

He brings the glass to his lips and tightens his other hand around the base of his cock, imagines it’s Demos’ mouth, pillowy and wet, sucking all the way to the tip, and Ferris doesn’t do anything to stop the gasp that drags up from the bottom of his throat. Drinking and wanking at the same time is much more complicated than Ferris first anticipated, but he’s willing to give it a go, if only to pass the time. He’s only just starting to get hard, cheek pressed into the chair, when the staccato of metal rapping against polished wood snaps the perfect moment in two. 

Ferris counts the texts. He gets to three, each one curtly following the other, before the room falls silent again. Rolling his neck, wood jabbed up against his spine, he eyes his phone lying forgotten on the vanity a million miles away on the other side of the room. 

Opportunity cost rears its ugly head; getting the phone involves either putting down the wine or his dick and neither option is particularly favourable. He could always just leave it, finish what he’s started, but proper etiquette gets the better of him as he drops his dick and hauls himself across the space between the chair to the desk. He thumbs the screen open. 

He doesn’t have to guess who they’re from.

**Today** 14:17

**From** : Il Tuo Fidanzato

@ ledge near bottom terrace. please come.

**Today** 14:17

**From** : Il Tuo Fidanzato

bring wine.

**Today** 14:18

**From** : Il Tuo Fidanzato

there are horses. 

This excuse is as good as any, the journey won’t lead him through any unseen chambers or unmapped nations, but it will get him out of this room, and Ferris slides both the phone and the wine glass back across the vanity, aligning them neatly with the straight edge of the grain before stepping away.

He’s going to need to find some pants.

 

 

 

 

Though it is absolutely less efficient and far more time consuming, Ferris has established that the only way to travel down the mountainside without getting burned alive by the late summer sun is to weave in and out of the pergola trellises. He could take the main road, but evidence suggests that this method only ends in sweat soaked clothes and a splitting headache, and has therefore been scrapped in favour of the tried and tested serpentine. It may be cowardly, hiding under the dappled shade cast by the vines, but it is cooler and decidedly less painful.

The disgusting factor is still marginally high though, and Ferris finds himself tugging habitually at his shirt where sweat has clung it to his skin. Veronese humidity is merciless, but as a breeze blows in from the west, funnelled across the valley by the arbour tunnels, Ferris is indebted to whoever decided centuries ago that a pergola-terraced vineyard was definitely the way to go.

Like holding fingers over a flashlight, sunlight hits the palm-sized leaves and has nowhere to go but through them, refracting off themselves again once the light touches the other side. Ferris walks through an infinite kaleidoscope of green. Knots in the vines twist over each other, and if he reaches upwards he could tangle taut wires, branches, and the occasional dangling cluster of unripened grapes around his hands and up to his elbows with no trouble at all.

He has done this before, the slope leading down to the bottom terrace as familiar to Ferris now as the villa is unfamiliar. The meander to the drop off ledge into the valley has been an almost daily exercise since his arrival. It pains him to know that he is more acquainted with the grape vines than he is with the contents of the house, and it’s his full intention to place every ounce of blame concerning this tragedy on the one who brought him here.

It had been exciting, back when the answer to Ferris’ “Where are we staying?” had been met with Demos’ “Fucking everywhere,” an answer that could feasibly sit anywhere on the figurative to literal meaning spectrum. But Demos has yet to make good on his claim, and much more time has been invested into touring the estate than screwing all over it. Hornier than he would like to admit, it’s beginning to grate on Ferris. Patience is a virtue, but so is punctuality.

Gravity tugs Ferris down past the edge of the final terrace, his steps heavy on the clay earth. The breeze is stronger here, fresh air coming up from the valley, and it’s enough to pull Ferris out of the shade and into direct sunlight.

“Aah! Finalmente il mio principe è venire da me.”

Demos’ voice drifts over from nearby, and Ferris turns to spy him, not far from the pergola, propped up by his elbows where he lays on the grass exactly where he said he’d be.

A sunhat droops low over his brow, and as he shifts to lift the brim Ferris watches the folds of what he’s very sure is one of his own shirts bunch where Demos has rolled it around his elbows. It’s too big for him, but Demos has manoeuvred around this problem by not fastening any of the buttons, the descent of milky skin under a linen waistline on full display. 

Ferris wants him under him, wants Demos’ skin hot under his lips and knows he’ll taste the sun there, wants his hands inside those ridiculously short shorts that ride too high on his legs.

Ferris realises belatedly that he should not have drunk all that wine.

He doesn’t move from where he stands. “If you leave fresh ricotta out in the sun it spoils.”

Both of Demos’ shoulders suddenly tense. “Did I leave the ricotta out? 

“I’m talking about you, cheese wheel.”

“Oh.”

Demos flops back haphazardly, adjusting the hat so that the brim covers his face, shielding his eyes from the glare, but Ferris thinks it’s more likely to shield his eyes from watching him stroll over.

“I hope you’re wearing sunscreen.”

“That would be incredibly unhelpful,” Demos’ voice is sun soaked and slow, like he’s been marinated for several hours. “I’m trying to get a tan.”

Ferris’ footsteps slow as he reaches Demos’ side. “Do or do not. There is no try.”

“Quoting _Star Wars_. Also unhelpful.”

“Noted.”

“What are you still standing for?” Demos tilts the brim of his hat, squinting up at Ferris for half a second before deciding its too much trouble. He pulls the brim back down over his face. “Sit down, breadsticks, stay a while. Your soiling ricotta requires companionship.”

Ferris does as he’s told, folding his legs criss cross applesauce beside Demos’ outstretched ones. The sun prickles the back of his neck, but the air is crisp here, and the pergola’s shade is reaching for them. In a few short minutes it will touch their backs and until then Ferris is content to watch the inky cloud shadows drag themselves across the slopes on the opposite side of the valley.

Demos takes a recess from the complicated legal battle he’s engaged with against the melanin in his skin, twisting slightly to deposit one of his legs over Ferris’ lap. “Did you bring wine?”

He didn’t, and Ferris knows Demos isn’t going to like why. “I thought we could use a break.”

“You…” The muscle in Demos’ calf tightens up over Ferris’ thigh as he pushes himself up by his elbows. “You can’t just issue a time out.”

“It’s been three days and I’ve already lost count of how many bottles we’ve been through.” Ferris feels Demos’ eyes bore into the side of his head. “Our rate of consumption is unsustainable.”

“Come on! You’re concerned about sustainability?” Demos is up on his hands now, bristled just out of Ferris’ reach. “We could literally drown ourselves in the vats back at the distillery. We do not want for grape nor bottle.”

“I’m not protesting your grandfathers wine, Demos. I happen to be a big fan.” Ferris takes Demos’ foot in his hands, rubs his thumbs over the knobbly part near the ankle. “I just happen to be a bigger fan of functioning livers.”

“Hey, if your liver isn’t up to the challenge you should not have sat at the big kids table.”

As Demos shrugs himself back onto his elbows, Ferris moves his fingers around Demos’ foot, sliding his nails under the leather straps of his sandals where they stretch over the bridge. “I didn’t sit. If we’re getting allegorical, I am technically being held hostage at the big kids table by _you._ ”

“No-one is anyone’s hostage.”

“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”

“Both our livers are fine!” Demos slumps against the ground, dragging his palms down his face. “We’re young, you’re being unreasonable. There’s no need to drag me into your… your prohibition era recovery and recuperation.”

Ferris pads circles around the ball of Demos’ foot. “Quit your _whining._ ”

“Oh my god!”

Immediately Demos’ leg is up and away, soaring high as he kicks his body out as far away from Ferris as possible. He’s still so close it’s embarrassing.

Ferris’ smile hurts his cheeks, and he hears Demos’ voice come out muffled from behind the hat he’s attempting to smother himself with. “Oh my god. Tornare a casa! Non voglio più vederti! Perché sei venuto qui!?”

He’s been slipping into Italian more and more since coming here. It’s either muscle memory or the work in process stages of slow and deliberate torture at Ferris’ expense. It’s hard to tell, and Ferris finds it’s easier not to think about it.

He leans over, finger curling around the skin of Demos’ ankle, and tugs. Demos’ leg is limp, doesn’t protest, and Ferris takes that as a green light to undo the buckles of his sandal once it’s pulled back into his lap. He massages Demos’ arch, touch light, and rolls his head back to stare blankly at the edgeless sky. The sunlight in his periphery hits his glasses at a bad angle. It hurts his eyes a lot.

“You said there were horses.”

Demos snorts. He curls his toes as Ferris pads under his sole, and Ferris hears the rustle of his shirt bunch up as Demos drags his body over, further away, until his leg is a railroad intersection over Ferris’ lap.

“Look yonder.” He says, and Ferris doesn’t have time to lament Demos being so impossibly far away before his eyes are following the line of the single raised finger Demos has pointed out across the valley.

There _are_ horses. They’re difficult to make out, but scattered more or less within the vicinity of Demos’ pointed finger, low on the bank of the opposite hillside, Ferris can see the tell tail flick of tails and the odd kick in amongst the dark shapes on the grass. Dark bay and dun horses, heads down and immersed in grazing. Ferris is tempted to start counting, but thinks better of it, every sweep of his eyes revealing more horses than there were before. He’d likely be here for days.

His gaze falls on what he hopes is a small buckskin nuzzling it’s disinterested neighbour when Demos sighs against the grass at his side. “They’re wild, I think. I’m not sure.”

“The foal is cute.” Ferris nods his chin in the direction of the buckskin.

Demos rolls up onto his arms, eyes attempting to follow Ferris’ vague directional gesture. Ferris thinks he must not have seen it, but Demos suddenly lies back down, stretches his hands above his head. “That’s a filly, technically. She looks too big to still be a foal.”

Horse Girl Demos is as about as annoying as every other kind of Demos, but it’s the kind of annoying Ferris has to turn his head very quickly to avoid being caught smiling about. Demos, now ripe of the mocking, curves his heel into Ferris’ palm, and Ferris is just about to let the ridicule begin when a sudden start of movement across the bank snaps his eyes back to the horses.

Two horses have broken away.

They move at full canter, dark bodies gliding across the grass so close they’re almost one shape. Suddenly, one horse stops, and in an instant it’s rounded the other, knocking its jaw squarely against the others neck so fast Ferris almost misses it. He watches, transfixed as both horses butt heads, bite manes, and push their whole bodies against one other. One horse slips to its front knees as it shoves the others shoulder, and a soft gasp beside Ferris reveals that Demos is watching too. The horses’ brake, then run for it, nipping at each others tails as they sprint up the hillside.

“They’re fighting.” Ferris watches them until they disappear around the mountain.

“Hmm. Stallions do that,” Demos heaves his other leg across the grass and towards Ferris’ lap. Ferris takes the hint, pulling Demos’ ankle into his hands and loosening the buckle. “That’s why stables keep them away from each other.”

Ferris slowly lifts the shoe from Demos’ foot and with one hand, places it carefully next to its pair by his side. “Does Luciano fight?”

The skin of Demos’ arch feels thick, soft and warped in his hands, and both his legs are heavy where they press into Ferris’ thigh, but if this is doing anything for Demos he’s disguising it well, voice languid despite the tenseness in his calves.

His toes curl against Ferris’ thumbs. “It’s not really fighting. Dominance challenges are common but its all bluffing, it rarely ends in anything physical. The weaker stallion always runs before it comes to that.”

Ferris fingers slide up his sole, burry themselves in the skin under his toes.

“And no,” Demos leisurely adds. “He doesn’t.”

“Luciano just naturally docile?”

“Luciano isn’t the weaker stallion.”

Ferris isn’t quick enough this time. The snort that escapes his nose isn’t hidden by the turn of his head, so he ends up having to pull his smile in with his cheeks, sucked against his teeth in the very unpractised way he’s no used to. His laugh comes out of his nose in faltering puffs.

“What?” Demos’ voice is dry, cracked like an open window.

“Nothing.” Ferris busies his hands in the knobs of Demos’ ankles, forcing his face back into a frown. “I like it when you talk horse to me, you should do it more often.”

“I knew it! You only want me for my equine knowledge.”

Demos stretches upwards again, shoulders pressed into his ears, but his foot slips from Ferris grasp, toes landing on his opposite thigh and pushing Ferris’ legs open. Ferris eyes the foot, feels where Demos has wrapped his toes in his pants, and follows the leg all the way back up. His shirt has slipped from Demos’ shoulders, fabric draped halfway between his bicep and his elbow, and the hat covering Demos’ face just doesn’t quite go far enough to hide his smirk.

A twin smile breaks out on Ferris’ face. “Don’t stop now.”

Running his hands up Demos’ bare legs, Ferris slides his body over, faster and less subtle than he’d like, until his fingers wrap around his wrists and his whole body is draped over Demos’. The hat tips back, fall from his head, but Demos pays it no mind.

He smells like grapes and deodorant, and when Ferris speaks it’s into the warm skin of Demos’ neck. “Tell me more about domesticated stallion behaviour.”

“Oh God, is this _turning you on_?” Demos is laughing, his face turned into the grass but his leg hooks around the back of Ferris knee, and even though the horses aren’t doing anything for Ferris, the feeling of Demos’ chest, solid and naked beneath his, definitely is.

Curving his arms around, he slips them under Demos’ head, his hair soft against his forearms and his cheek hot where he squashes it onto Ferris’ temple. The sun warm on his back, Ferris lines their legs up, impatient, but still he waits for Demos to wrap is arms under his shoulders before pressing his hips down.

When his dick, straining hard against his fly, slides across the valley of Demos’ hipbone Demos makes a thoughtless noise, a rogue moan, and digs his forehead into the muscle of Ferris shoulder. Ferris does it again, thrusting slow and shallow over Demos’ hip. The cold frame of his glasses is getting pushed into his eyebrow, but Ferris opens his mouth slick against Demos’ neck, under his jaw. He can taste the sun.

Sweat sticks Ferris’ shirt to Demos’ bare chest, and he can feel Demos’ cock, pathetically hard in his shorts, pressed against his belly. He holds Demos tighter, pushes all his weight down, and when Demos gasps, breathe shaking against his collar, Ferris sinks his teeth into the skin under his ear.

Demos groan is muffled in the fabric of Ferris’ shirt, eyes screwed so tightly shut Ferris can hear it, and Ferris limbs feel so heavy, so warm. His fingers curl around strands of Demos’ hair.

He almost misses Demos’ mouthing into his neck. “I’m hot.”

Ferris bites his earlobe. “I know.”

“No, I’m _hot_.” Demos’ fingers slide up and down his back. “Ciccio, Get off.”

He feels Demos’ arms fall away, fold up, and softly tamp on the skin of his arms. His dick is still hard, flush against Ferris’ where their hips press together, so Ferris drags a kiss along his jawline, feels Demos sigh into it.

“Not in the mood?”

“No, no. I’m in the mood.” Demos tilts his head back, gives Ferris more neck room. His voice feels far away, and as his hands settle soft and slight on Ferris’ shoulders, Ferris turns his head to press a kiss under the curve of his cheek. “It’s just very sunny here. And there’s not enough wine at the moment.”

There has never been a moment in Demos’ life where he hasn’t played hard to get. The sweat on Ferris’ back sticks his shirt to his skin, and with the back of his wrist Ferris has to push the bridge of his glasses up from where they’ve slipped down his nose. He can taste Demos’ sweat when he kisses the knob of his jaw. He won’t argue that it isn’t very sunny.

“I know where we can get wine.”

He can feel Demos’ smile on his cheeks where they brush his. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ferris breathes, arms loosening but fingers still tangled in dark hair. “There’s a vineyard not far from here. We can walk there.”

Demos’ whole body goes limp under him, laugh practically coughed into the sleeve of Ferris’ shirt. He’s quiet, his eyes closed against Ferris’ cheek, and Ferris begins to wonder if he’s spectacularly misfired when he feels Demos’ eyelashes flutter open against his skin, his arms wrap around his back.

“Portami lì.”

His arms are numb where Demos’ head has rested on them, and pulling them out from underneath him, peeling his whole body away, is a lot more physically and emotionally difficult than Ferris would like it to be, all things considered. It’s obvious Demos feel the same, because as soon as Ferris is off the ground, his back soaked in sweat, pants tight and dick hard, Demos’ arms fly up in a silent demand to be scooped.

Ferris reaches down, heaves him from the earth, and his arm does not fall from where he hooks it around Demos’ waist even as he bends over to retrieve the discarded hat and shoes.

It takes a sum total of two steps for them to walk under the pergola.

“We’re here.” Ferris announces, and presses a kiss into the crease of Demos’ brow as Demos snatches his hat back from Ferris’ grasp.

 

 

 

 

While Ferris’ arms could reach easily into the vines above his head, canopy dense around his elbows, Demos has a much more difficult time. Only on tiptoe do his fingertips just brush over the edges of the fatter leaves, the ones so thick they droop under their own weight. The soft _thump_ of him smacking his idle hand across them as he walks is distracting, but not distracting enough to stop Ferris from trying to follow the sway of Demos’ ass, shrouded from view behind the drape of Ferris’ own untucked shirt.

There are dried leaves stuck in his hair, to his shoulders. If Ferris feels light headed he blames it on the altitude.

Demos’ fingers snag on a cluster of grapes, nails fumbling around the ones he can reach, and when he eventually manages to pluck two off the bunch he spins around and beams, showing off his winnings like watching Demos struggle to reach something taller than him is the most impressive thing Ferris will ever see.

The grapes are green, underripe, but October isn’t too far away, so the faintest of blues glows from beneath the hard skin. They look tough, Ferris doubts they’re very edible, but he eyes the arm Demos outstretches towards him anyway, grape pinched between thumb and lean index finger.

“Want one?”

A dead leaf slips down a few strands of his hair, the breeze just not strong enough to free it and its friends from where they’re stuck in Demos’ bangs, and Ferris tries to stop obsessing over it and instead focuses on refusing Demos’ offer with a quick shake of his head.

Demos smiles like he knew he’d do that, drawing his arm back.

“Not your favourite fruit, huh?” Demos tosses the grape into his mouth like an idiot. Immediately his face contorts into a wrinkled grimace once he bites it between his teeth, like he’s somehow surprised it tastes awful. Ferris hears him swear “Acida” under his breath.

“They’re not my _least_ favourite,” The leaves are slowly driving him crazy, and Ferris can’t stop his hand from reaching over and dragging one out from its hairy ensnarement. His heroic gesture is short-lived, the blade flaking as he flicks it away, but he smooths Demos’ hair back until his hands catches at the nape of his neck. His duties continue, fingers meeting with more leaves to be set free.

“That would be you.” He finishes.

Spite makes Demos eat the other grape before tugging Ferris’ chin towards his mouth. Ferris thinks he meant to go for a kiss, but combination Acidity and Scowl slip his trajectory off course, mouth landing off target and onto the corner of Ferris’ nose. He huffs a breath there before sliding his lips down, and Ferris knocks Demos’ sandals against the small of his back where he loops his arm around his waist, kissing Demos full on the mouth.

He’s given up trying to be subtle, doesn’t understand how Demos plays coy like it’s an endurance marathon, so when Demos’ smile presses against his lips Ferris opens his mouth embarrassingly quick. Demos’ hand traces along his jaw, under his glasses, and Ferris feels the pads of Demos’ bare toes step over the end of his shoe. Demos slips his tongue into his mouth, and the hand Ferris has poised to brush a leaf from the back of Demos’ hair goes still behind his head.

He hums awkwardly, voice clipped, and Demos chases it with his lips.

“You taste like half a bottle of wine.” Demos breathes, mouth wet against the side of Ferris’.

“You taste like,” Ferris sucks Demos’ upper lip between his teeth, frowning, feels the muscles in Demos face shiver. “Two grapes.”

“You’ve been drinking the wine without me.”

“You left me there. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not drink the wine without me, Ferris.” Demos’ jaw slants, and he glides his fingers up and away to cup the back of Ferris’ head. He knocks his elbows over his shoulders, and Ferris feels the brim of Demos’ hat brush against the small of his back.

Drink wine or don’t drink wine. Ferris wants to wrap all of Demos’ infuriating contradictions around himself like a musty quilted blanket, edges mismatched where more squares have yet to be sewn.

He feels dizzy, pliant, and Demos keeps kissing his mouth over and over, bare chest pressed warm and close.

“Forgive me. I was beside myself with misery.” Ferris slowly drags his nails through Demos’ hair. “Without you.”

Smile pushed hard against his mouth, Ferris feels Demos suck in a breath, chest swelling, caught on Ferris hook line and sinker. “Oh, come tragico. Did you miss me?”

“Hmm. In a moment of desperation I may have opened the Valpolicella.”

Ferris’ glasses dig into Demos’ cheek when he tongues at the roof of Ferris’ mouth. When he speaks it’s into his teeth. “The Superiore?”

“Yeah” Ferris’ voice is a pathetic huff.

“No.” Demos shakes his head weakly, and Ferris thinks he’s trying too hard to multitask. His arms loop around Ferris’ neck, toes press into his foot, but the grip on his hat falters like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. His brow furrows, lost in thought, Ferris feels the creases against his nose. When Demos speaks again it’s with his mouth full of Ferris’ tongue. “You opened the Amarone. The Amarone della Valpolicella”

Ferris presses his thumb into the dip in Demos’ back, draws a circle. “You can tell?”

“I’m a Giorgetti. You could fart on the other end of this valley in the middle of a hurricane and I’d be able to tell what wine you opened.”

Ferris’ lips slip, teeth grazing along Demos’ jaw, and when he digs his thumb hard into the small of Demos’ back he’s rewarded with Demos’ puffed laughter right in his ear. “Don’t kill the mood, please.”

Demos’ body shakes in his arms, but he kisses Ferris’ ear, sucks the skin between his lips. “Sorry. I can start talking about horses again if you want?”

“For the love of God, just turn around already.”

The yelp Demos barks when Ferris pushes them forward into one of the vines is the most embarrassing thing Ferris has ever heard, but Demos tries to play it off by laughing directly into Ferris’ cheek, dropping his hat to grasp at both Ferris’ shoulders.

It doesn’t work, he’s still thoroughly humiliated, but Ferris is willing to forgive and forget so long as the hand Demos trails down his torso and towards his waistline has more than half the commitment than it had back on the grass.

Ferris lets go of the sandals, feels Demos flinch and huff a quiet snort into his neck, and his fingers rush around to fumble in the bow tying Demos’ shorts high around his waist. These shorts are but one small component in the multifaceted agenda dedicated to cockblocking Ferris.

Cotton draping dangerously low on Demos’ collar, the fabric of Demos’ shirt brushes Ferris’ wrists, and he doesn’t know where to focus his attention, his hands or the mouth Demos has around his earlobe. He dips his brow, using Demos’ temple to slide his glasses up his nose, but they just slide right back down again when Demos sticks his hand down his pants.

He gasps into the hollow of Demos’ cheek, squashes a kiss there, and before Demos can get too busy pumping his hand over his dick, he spins him, chest pressing firmly into Demos’ back. He’s so warm, fits like he was tailored to, pushed hard against Ferris’ sweat soaked shirt. A patch of sun breaks through the vines and burns the back of Ferris’ neck when he gets Demos’ shorts open, bathing him in the light of triumphant success as he finally wraps his hand around Demos’ cock.

“Aah – Oh shit.” The arm Ferris hooks around Demos’ chest gets stabbed by Demos’ chin as he moans. His hand isn’t dry for long, and Ferris doesn’t want to waste precious time and resources getting any more clothes off, so he just mashes a sloppy kiss into the corner of Demos’ eye, guiding his hips forward until his dick slides through the curve of Demos’ ass.

“Fuck!“ Demos’ voices rasps close and damp on Ferris’ ear where his head has tipped back against it, and his neck smells like Ferris’ mouth and Ferris’ shirt. He is as hard as Ferris is, which is pretty desperately hard, and Ferris watches Demos’ hand, the one clamped around the wooden post of the pergola, twitch as his ass cheeks spread, as he rocks back on Ferris’ dick. Ferris sucks a bruise into his collar when he feels Demos’ nails close around the skin of his hip.

Ferris’ hand is soaked, Demos dick leaking all over his palm, and Ferris could honestly come right now and it probably wouldn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things.

He flicks his wrist, presses his thumb hard under the tip of Demos’ cock and listens for Demos’ broken whine. “You want to come like this?”

“I want t– Ah!” Demos eyes are squeezed shut, body tight and cheeks searing red under Ferris lips. He breaths, hard and open mouthed, near Ferris’ mouth. “Jesus, Ferris.”

“What do you want?” Ferris nudges his forehead into Demos’, arm on his chest sliding up to hold his chin.

“You’re not – hmm,” He moans, gasps shallow, and Ferris feels the knit of his brow. “You’re… not going to like it.”

That’s something. A breeze cools the sweat on the back of Ferris’ neck, and while the hand he has around Demos’ dick doesn’t stop, it does slow, and Ferris tries to compensate for his drop in pace by tightening the circle of his palm. Demos groans, pushing back on Ferris’ hips as Ferris mummers into his cheek. “What?”

“I want – ” Demos’ jaw tightens, and Ferris watches the fingers hooked on the vines in front of him grip tighter, Demos’ whole body slowing under his. Chest heaving, Demos slumps his chin into Ferris’ arm, drags his nails over Ferris’ hip, and Ferris feels like if he could just listen closely enough he’d be able to hear the gears turning inside his head.

“Let me try – Fuck, Ferris.” Face tucked into Ferris’ arm, Demos’ voice is a broken whisper. “I want to… want to fuck your thighs.”

Of all the things Ferris had imagined Demos would say, that statement had not even broken the top ten. It probably barely makes it into the top fifty, floating aimlessly around the sixties or seventies in regards to ranking anything that Demos says ever.

It’s a very loaded statement, and Ferris has to drag his eyelids open under the weight of it, focus settling on the very close and very flushed skin of Demos’ cheeks.

“You want to fuck my thighs?” he repeats.

“You have--” Demos softly traces his nails over the side of Ferris’ hip, down his leg, until he smooths his palm over the flat skin of his thigh. His hands are distractingly sweaty, and Ferris watches Demos’ eyelashes shudder; mouth falling open is a quiet gasp. “Honestly, you have no idea.”

The lazy desperation to have Demos hot and pliant under him that has fuelled Ferris since leaving the house doesn’t so much abandon him as it recedes, like a tide back into the ocean. It’s out there, but it’s far away, and Ferris doesn’t know what replaces it as he glides his lips down the side of Demos’ neck, presses a kiss to his collarbone.

He wants… he doesn’t know. His brow furrows into the curve of Demos’ neck, and as if intrinsically knowing what he hath wrought, Demos rocks back into Ferris dick. It makes Ferris’ breath catch.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Demos says quickly, come smearing into the small of his back as his mouth reaches around to kiss at the nearest part of Ferris’ face he can reach. He gets the inside corner of an eyebrow. “Your dick’s fine. Your dick’s great. I love your dick.”

“Hang on, I’m just--” Ferris presses their bodies together, pumps his hand around the head of Demos’ cock because it’s the only thing he can really make sense of at the moment. “I’m just thinking.”

It’s not an easy thing to do when he’s rock hard against Demos’ back, when he can feel the air stutter in Demos’ tiny lungs all the way through his ribcage and his spine where it presses against his chest. He breathes in Demos’ skin, and knows that if he’s honest with himself, really honest, there isn’t actually an awful lot to think about outside of the feeling of Demos’ arm draped warm over his torso. The memory of Demos’ breath hot and wet on his ear, the head of Demos cock, leaking thick and filthy, and pressed thisclose into his skin of his leg.

He shudders, dick between Demos’ ass cheeks twitching, and he grunts into Demos’ shoulder when he leans back on it. Ferris can hear the nervous smile in his voice “What are you thinking _about?_ ”

“Lets try it,” Ferris says embarrassingly quickly.

“What? Really?” Demos’ dick slips from Ferris’ palm as he spins around. He looks so genuinely surprised, like he can’t actually believe this has worked.

“Yeah, thighs is…” Ferris picks a leaf on the vine over Demos’ left shoulder to stare at, not trusting himself with direct eye contact so soon. “I think thighs is okay. Just don’t stick your dick up my ass.”

He’s not joking, but Demos laughs anyway, a little manic sounding, and his hands skirt up over Ferris’ shoulders in a way that clearly shows he has no idea what he’d supposed to be doing. “Relax Ciccio, I don’t like you that way.”

Ferris kisses him, red faced and smug, getting the suspicion that even though this is Demos’ idea he’s going to end up doing a lot of the legwork. Demos’ mouth is really wet, and he sucks on his bottom lip as he toes off his shoes, blindly throwing his arm out in the hope of hooking it on a pergola post.

He gets one after a few lame tries, grabbing onto it and trying not to go insane when he hears Demos whisper “Che cosa sto facendo?” behind him.

“How’s it going back there?”

“Swimmingly, thank you for asking.” Demos’ curt reply betrays him, but the soft hand he lays on Ferris’ stomach isn’t timid, nails dragging up and under the loose cotton of his shirt. It makes him gasp.

It feels nice, and Ferris involuntarily leans back into it. “Sure you don’t need an instruction manual?”

“I know how to fuck, Ferris.”

“From observation.”

“Shut up.” Demos presses his forehead into the space between Ferris’ shoulder blades, laughter caught in the threads of the fabric. His hand curls round, slips over the head of Ferris’ dick, and Ferris has no doubt in his mind that he’s made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Demos’ voice is squashed into the middle of Ferris’ spine when he mumbles. “Keep your knees together.”

The hand Demos has under Ferris’ shirt fists around the cotton, pulling the sweat soaked fabric tight against his back, and he rocks forward, giving Ferris no time to think about anything before he feels the slick slide of Demos’ dick press between the muscles of his thighs.

Something in his throat spasms, and Ferris’ voice breaks around the loud and completely accidental groan that escapes from his throat.

“Oh my god. Fuck.” Demos is so close, so warm on his back, panting a damp spot into the space between Ferris’ shoulders. His fingers shake where they hold onto Ferris’ shirt, and slick enough with his own come, he grinds out and in of Ferris’ legs, pace achingly slow.

Ferris’ elbows feel weak for no reason, threatening to buckle his arms where he leans them against the pergola. He tips his head forward, suddenly gaining an understanding for Demos’ eternal need to be fucked harder, faster. His glasses hang dangerously low on his nose, but there’s nothing he can do for them as Demos thrusts tight, slides under his balls, and Ferris can’t stop himself from leaking a burst of precome pathetically into Demos’ hand.

He tightens his knees, pushes back into Demos, and feels him shudder all the way down his spine, his hand loosening from his shirt to wrap under his arm, nails carding over Ferris’ hair. They’re still shaking.

“Fuck. Your legs.” Demos moans, smacking a damp kiss to Ferris’ shoulder through the fabric of his shirt.

“I know.” Ferris feels weird, guts twisting, and he breaths hard as he twists his head to lean into Demos’ hand. “They really do go all the way down to the floor.”

“Take me seriously while I’m trying to fuck you.”

There’s nothing serious about this. Demos’ rhythm is all wrong, out of sync like the world’s worst wedding DJ, as if he wants it to be painfully obvious this is the first time he’s done something like this. But Ferris feels like that says more about him than anything else, dick so hard he can barely take it, hips rolling back into every one of Demos’ hopelessly ill timed thrusts.

Every second makes him feel more stupid, his face hot under the palm of Demos’ hand, and in a moment of pure compulsion he tips his head over to suck at the pulse on Demos’ wrist, wishing it were his mouth, wishing they could kiss.

He hears Demos gasp a moan into his shoulder blade, knees shaking, and Ferris holds his legs together tight, a solid wall of muscle, until he feels Demos’ come right between his thighs. It’s so gross, and Ferris disappoints himself thoroughly when sighs hard against the feeling of it, sticky and disgusting on his skin.

Demos presses his whole body, as much of it as he can reach, into Ferris’ back, as close as he can get. He readjusts his grip on Ferris’ cock, panting hard in Ferris’ ear, but it only takes two languid pumps and Demos’ absolutely wrecked “Come on” against his shoulder for Ferris to spill all over his hand.

His elbows do buckle, as does half a knee, and he hates how he has no other choice but to let Demos wrap his arms around his chest, caught on his slump to the earth by Demos’ spindly hands. There’s a comical grunt behind him, and Ferris considers how falling flat on his face might possibly be less embarrassing than letting the folds of Demos’ fingers in his shirt lower them until their knees press into the grass.

This is not the tether to post fucking reality Ferris is used to. He tries to get his eyes to focus on something, anything, but finds he’s unable to. Everything just a mass of blurry green. At some point his glasses must have slipped off.

Demos’ hands press tightly into his chest, and his voice sounds like its been dragged across sandpaper for a thousand years. “How was that?”

Ferris presses his thumb to where the bridge of his glasses should be, feels nothing but skin. “You want your postgame breakdown?”

“Give it to me straight, coach.”

“It was…” Ferris tries to think of something to say that wont hurt Demos’ delicate feelings, considers the gentle and loving embrace he finds himself in and how softly Demos’ heart might break if he knew. Knew he was really bad at fucking. “You… you certainly fucked my thighs.”

He goes for awestruck, shoots! Scores!

“Okay, don’t hurt yourself.”

Everything is so green. It hurts to look at, glowing fuzzy and sun-stained all around him, but when Ferris shuts his eyes he’s alone with the back of his eyelids and Demos’ quiet giggling, and that’s not a situation he wants to be in. He leans over, hopes it’s in the direction of the vines and not into nothingness, and feels Demos hands push him sideways until his head gently knocks against the trunk of a grapevine. He adjusts, sticking his legs out on the grass.

It’s not possible to feel this weird. He feels completely wrung out; a dishcloth that’s been something, maybe. His bones are jelly and metaphors aren’t going to bring back the feeling of the tendons in his knees. Ferris only feels Demos slump down next to him, warm body pressed all the way up his side and breathes deep, the cold grass under his legs, and the gross mess between them.

Ferris’ pants are impossible to retrieve, rolled light-years away at the bottom of his legs around his ankles. He wants to kiss Demos, but he doesn’t know where he is. Life is full of such tragedies.

He sighs slowly, eyes unfocusing above him on a bright thing he thinks is probably the sun. “What’s the plan now?”

“I don’t know.” Demos’ location is confirmed, his head dropping to Ferris’ shoulder and knees drawing up and leaning against Ferris’ straightened ones. His hair laps Ferris’ chin when the breeze picks up, so Ferris lifts his hand, arm wrapping around Demos’ shoulder so he can smooth it down. “We go back to the house. Sleep. Fuck. Olives. Fuck again.”

Ferris turns his face into Demos’ hair, smell himself in it. “Olives?”

“Or more wine, I guess.” Demos’ head tips before Ferris can mentally map out which way it was facing, but he feels Demos’ nose breath out over his collar, so it’s alright in the end. “We can do anything you want, honestly. I don’t actually have a plan.”

There’s a lot more meaning behind that than Demos is letting on, but Ferris’ chest still heaves deeply and he can’t see a damn thing. He thumbs for the collar of Demos’ shirt, still technically his, and tugs on it until he thinks he’s got it draping as unwrinkled as possible across Demos’ shoulder

“Anything I want?”

Demos lifts his head. “Yeah.”

Ferris kisses him, is astonished to catch his lips first try considering all the trouble it took to get to this point, and Demos opens soft-mouthed and quiet against him. He’s smiling, but when Ferris’ licks his upper lip he puffs a blunt laugh against Ferris’ teeth.

“Whoa there, buckaroo.”

The events that occur next happen all too fast and out of focus for Ferris to pay proper attention to. He knows Demos gets up, feels his arm slipping into the grass as Demos peels himself away. He assumes there’s some item collecting after that, shorts tying, but he can’t be sure.

“I don’t think- I don’t think I want to stand up.” Ferris answers a question he’s not sure was asked, and Demos laughs in response so the jury’s still out.

“Wait here.” Demos’ shadows crosses his field of vision, reaches down to pick something up. “I’ll get you some pants, maybe a bottle of Ripasso. It’s got a very full bodied flavour.”

“Much like myself.”

There is absolutely nothing full bodied about the way Ferris is feeling now, and Ferris hates everything about not being able to see, to stand. He won’t ever know if Demos smiled at his joke or not, can’t even tell if Demos is still there when he speaks. “Don’t leave me here!”

“I’m coming back. And if I don’t you know we’re I’ll be.”

Demos is suddenly much closer than previously thought. His lips are wet where he presses them against the crown of Ferris’ head, soft and sweet. Ferris tips his face up, butts his nose against Demos’ jaw.

“Go watch the horses, Babà,” Demos’ palm cups his face, sliding Ferris’ glasses into place over his nose. “Try not to get a hard on.”

“How will I know what’s going on without you there to interpret for me?”

For his troubles Ferris gets his head shoved back into the grapevine before Demos is gone again. The brim of Demos’ hat scrolls under the scattered light as he walks down the pergola, and Ferris watches him go until he completely disappears, presumably back to the house. Back to the bedroom straight across the hall from stairwell to the first floor.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone remember that romcom with Russell Crowe and Marion Cotillard where Russell Crowe plays a bonds trader whos relative dies so he inherits a vineyard that he visits and threatens to sell it but he falls in love with Marion Cotillard so he doesn't sell it and I think they fuck in a pool?? Or Summer Boy by Lady Gaga? I need to make a mood board for this bullshit...
> 
>  
> 
> Merry Christmas, J! So glad you enjoyed this!!


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